


The Lost Prince of Alderaan

by fettuccine_alfreylo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ben Solo Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Loss, Consort Kylo Ren, Dark Rey (Star Wars), Dark Side Rey, Empress Rey, F/M, Farmer Ben Solo, Female Knights of Ren, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Sensitivity, Jedi Mind Tricks (Star Wars), Knights of Ren - Freeform, Lightsabers, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Power Imbalance, Prince Ben Solo, Princes & Princesses, Rags to Riches, Rey Palpatine, Self-Harm, Soft Ben Solo, Space Virgins, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Fix-It, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers, Strangers to Lovers, The Dark Side of the Force, The Force, Women In Power, hidden identities, torture used on stormtroopers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fettuccine_alfreylo/pseuds/fettuccine_alfreylo
Summary: 35 ABY.Empress Rey Palpatine has killed her grandfather, seizing her rightful place on the throne and ushering in the second Galactic Empire.Now she's in want of a consort.Naturally, every eligible lifeform in the galaxy is terrified.Ben doesn't understand the upset. Republics fall, oppressive regimes rise, but nothing will change in the grand scheme of things for nobody moisture farmers like him.So he thinks.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 992
Kudos: 1722





	1. Chapter 1

***

“He’s the one.”

Phasma does a doubletake at the holopad in front of her.

> **First name:** Ben
> 
> **Last name:** Nuan
> 
> **Species:** Human male
> 
> **Age:** 30 standard years 
> 
> **Eyes:** Brown
> 
> **Hair:** Black
> 
> **Weight:** 89 Kilograms
> 
> **Height:** 1.89 Meters 
> 
> **Planet of origin:** Tatooine
> 
> **Occupation:** Moisture Farmer

He's...rough. Rugged. Sunburnt to hell.

Tired. Spirit broken. Life has not been kind to this man and it shows. 

“Are you...sure, Your Imperial Majesty?” 

The Empress regards her with a cold, dead stare. 

_Reptilian_. 

“Are you questioning my decision, General Phasma?”

She’s always so still, so quiet, but has a hidden lethality. Phasma has seen firsthand what happens when that side of her is provoked. She has to tread lightly, now, if she values her life. And she does. It has surpassed her wildest expectations in just under a year. The Empress has made her a _general_ and holds her in the highest esteem, for reasons Phasma still doesn’t understand. Throwing all of that away due to any more thoughtless comments about a moisture farmer would be the epitome of foolishness. 

Yet...the Empress values honesty. She’s never been one for many words, but she has made _sure_ that everyone knows dishonesty is a punishable offense. 

There’s no other way around this, then. Phasma has to find some middle ground here. She can only hope that she doesn’t wind up dead for speaking her mind.

“If I may be frank: he is not royalty. He will not come with riches nor fleets of ships loyal to him. He is a commoner.”

“What is wrong with a commoner?” The Empress cocks her head, and a chill goes down Phasma’s spine underneath her heavy armor.

“Nothing is wrong. I am merely calling attention to his lack of assets. There are thousands upon thousands of potential companions that would prove more useful to the Empire and to you, Empress.” 

Phasma thinks she sees the ghost of a smile cross the younger woman’s gaunt features, but it’s gone in an instant. “Are you not a commoner yourself, General? Born on Parnassos to a lowly family?”

Phasma swallows, thankful for her helmet’s ability to conceal her nerves. “I am.”

“And _your_ assets? Your military prowess, your cunning nature, your leadership? Have those traits proven useful to the Empire thus far?” 

“...I see your point, Your Majesty.” 

The Empress stares back at her, emotionless. Phasma doesn’t move, holding her breath. It’s akin to waiting for a viper to strike. 

Finally, the Empress stands from her seat, her black robes moving in graceful waves about her feet. Without sparing Phasma another glance, she leaves their private meeting room on board the _Supremacy_ , throwing a simple command over her shoulder. 

“Find him.” 

***

Every day starts the same for Ben. 

He eats breakfast before the twin suns rise, usually one piece of flatbread and a glass of milk. When he really wants to treat himself, he washes down the stale bread with dried bantha meat or the last bit of the previous night’s womp rat stew.

Today isn’t one of those days, though. He’s got some serious work to do. Three of his moisture vaporators started acting up only a few days before he’s due to sell water at the market. He needs to fix them himself, despite his droid’s arguments to the contrary. 

“No, no, I have to do this myself, Artoo,” Ben yawns, patting the astromech’s round head on his way up the stairs to the homestead’s entryway. “I know you want to help. But you’re not going to be around forever, okay? One of these days you’re going to switch off for good and where will that leave me? Repairs needing to be done and not enough credits to buy a replacement repair droid.”

Artoo lets out an affronted beep and follows him anyway, in that wobbly way he does when he “climbs” stairs instead of taking the rickety old turbolift in the garage. 

“Alright, fine. You can still come. But keep your comments to a minimum. Not everyone can be as good of a mechanic as you’re programmed to be.”

Artoo doesn’t argue back about that. 

By mid-morning, Ben is sweating bullets. Droplets run off his forehead, his ears, his nose. And he hasn’t made any real progress. He hasn’t yet asked for Artoo’s help but even if he eventually does, it’s looking like he’ll need to buy spare parts. Spare parts with money he doesn’t have to spare right now. 

“ _Kriff._ ” 

Ben drops to the sand alongside his toolbox, pulling off his shirt to put over his head as a makeshift cover-up. He can get burnt to a crisp out here if he isn’t careful, and he hasn’t been careful today, too focused on trying to fix the vaporators to give his oversensitive complexion any thought. After living here his entire life, one would think that his pale skin would have adjusted to the climate, but that hasn’t been the case. He always gets painful sunburns and peeling skin like offworlders do. One of the many downsides to farm work. It’s not all bad but a lot of times, it is. He’s never felt like he was cut out for it. Any of it. This life. But it’s the only life he’s had, and the only life he knows. 

Artoo beeps inquiringly and Ben pinches his brow. “No, I don’t want your help yet.” He sighs, raking a sweaty hand down his equally sweaty face. “...Maybe in a few hours. Tell me the worst case scenario then, even though I already have a feeling what you’ll say. Okay?” 

The droid beeps his assent, leaving Ben to tinker and fume in his frustrated thoughts for awhile longer. 

It’s close to midday and Ben’s stomach is growling for lunch when he hears a speeder approaching from Anchorhead. 

No, make that two speeders. 

Ben shades his eyes with his hand, squinting off into the distance. 

Three? Four?

They’re steadily gaining speed, and it looks like they’re headed straight here. He hopes it isn’t raiders or bandits trying to steal water; he hasn’t had any trouble for months and he’s so exhausted, he doesn’t think he’d be able to put up a good enough fight.

“Artoo. Inside, now. Someone’s coming.” 

The droid doesn’t need to be asked twice. He speeds back to the homestead and Ben follows closely behind, mentally berating himself for not bringing his blaster with him on his repairs today. If there’s a chance of trouble, he’s going to need it. 

He hasn’t even made it down the stairs to the main living pit when he hears yelling. People yelling to show himself and his identification. 

Muffled yelling, modulated through helmets. 

Troopers. Four imperial stormtroopers outside his home. This day is going from bad to worse at lightspeed and it’s not even double noon yet. 

“Just a moment!” he calls, racing to his living quarters, racking his brain for where he last put his identichip. This isn’t the first time he’s been ID’d, nor will it be the last, but he’s never been paid a visit by troopers in his home before and it’s making him nosedive into a panic. There must be some sort of mistake. He’s a law abiding citizen who keeps his head down and carries on with his life independent of everything else that’s happening in the galaxy. That’s what he’s always done, as long as he can remember, and it’s served him well. It’s just been him and Artoo on this moisture farm, going through the motions day after day, not causing any problems for anyone. 

So why the hell has one giant problem showed up here today of all days? 

“SHOW YOURSELF AND YOUR IDENTIFICATION!” they bark again. 

“ALRIGHT!” Ben yells back, finally finding his chip in a pair of discarded pants he’d worn last week to the marketplace. His hands are shaking when he pulls it out. Kriff. _Kriff_. Is this really happening? Is he going to be arrested? Is he going to _die_? “I’ve found mine, hold on!” 

Patience must not be a thing that’s covered in stormtrooper training, because they do not heed his advice and hold on. Nothing of the sort. They start _kicking the door down_ like he’s some wanted criminal and when that doesn’t produce quick enough results, they blast the damn keypad apart. The one that he saved up months to get, knowing it would help to increase security out here in the Jundland Wastes. 

“HEY!” Ben yells, but that’s the last word he’s able to get out before a terrifyingly large trooper with chrome armor marches down the stairs, aims their blaster rifle at him, and stuns him square in the chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to my very first multichapter canonverse fic. I've written a [canonverse one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050705) before but that's it, so I am very much nervous to delve into canon like this, but I'm gonna give it my best shot. TROS left me heartbroken and needing to take control of the characters in my own way so here I am lol 
> 
> Big thanks to [Lauren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksco/pseuds/Ksco) for looking this over for canon compliance, and to [Keely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBumble/pseuds/QueenBumble) for beta'ing. I recommend reading any and all of their works! Two very talented authors that I am privileged to call my friends ♥️
> 
> Next update in a few days!


	2. Chapter 2

Ben wakes up on the cold durasteel floor of a detention cell. 

At least, he thinks that’s where he is. 

It’s a very small room with no windows and a sealed door. There’s one hard bed carved into the wall and a small vacc tube in another corner but aside from that, it’s completely bare. 

He tries not to think of how long he’s been here. Or how long he _will_ be here until he faces a fate worse than this. That avoidance tactic doesn’t last long. Within a few minutes panic rises up in his chest, making it difficult to breathe the recycled air. 

And with the ragged breathing comes the pain. 

He’s hurt. Badly. It’s torture to move any part of his body. Slowly, starting at his head, he starts taking stock of his injuries. His right eye is swollen. His nose is bent out of shape, dried blood crusted around his nostrils. He has a split lip that fiercely stings when he so much as brushes a finger against it. A few bruised ribs, he’s pretty sure - or maybe broken, even. That repeated sharp pain when he inhales isn’t normal. His legs are black and blue all over as if someone kicked him repeatedly, and his feet are bare and raw, dirt and grime encrusted in the tiny lacerations. 

Someone dragged him here against his will and locked him away for a crime he hasn’t committed. And there’s no way to get out, no way to get help. Because he knows no one. His closest friend is a kriffing _droid_ and there’s no telling how far away he’s been taken from Artoo. He may very well be across the galaxy from Tatooine by now. 

This must be how it ends, then. 

Alone, by himself. 

Just as he’s always been. 

These hopeless thoughts consume him, driving him into the deepest, darkest part of himself. The part that haunts him late at night when he’s desperate to sleep but can’t, longing for something or _someone_ to wrap his arms around besides himself. 

His body wracks in sobs, but he lets it happen this time, giving in to the pain his body is in. He’s tried to be strong for so long, tried to find meaning in his meaningless life. But there’s no use now. Because Artoo isn’t here to check on him. There is no promise of tomorrow, no twin suns to greet him in the morning, ushering in a new day that may be better than the last. 

There is nothing. 

***

Extreme exhaustion must have won out again, because Ben startles awake for the second time in his cell. Huddled on the floor, naked from the waist up, just as he’d been when the stormtroopers had captured him. 

This time, though, something’s different. 

He can feel someone watching him. 

When he gingerly turns over on his side, in the direction of the door, his intuition proves correct. 

_There’s a girl_. 

Ben jolts to his feet so fast, he immediately collapses again, his entire body too weak to hold his weight. 

Except…

Except he _stops_ , inches from faceplanting on the floor. His body is suspended, like an invisible thread is wrapped around his torso, buffering him from the fall. 

What the _hell_? 

Tentatively, feeling like he’s dreaming, he sets one of his hands back on the floor. 

The invisible thread snaps and he slumps over, his body only hurting a bit from the reduced impact. 

When he looks up again, the girl is still standing there. Watching him. One of her hands splayed out in front of her, stretched towards him. 

Understanding slowly dawns that _she_ was responsible for catching him, for making sure he didn’t fall. He doesn’t know how she did it - there’s no logical explanation for what just occurred - but he’s positive that it was her. 

“Thank you,” he says, or tries to say. His throat is drier than it’s ever been so his words come out in a croaky sort of whisper. 

She doesn’t acknowledge his thanks, just continues to stare. Her eyes rove over him, taking in his battered form. He’s never been more aware that he’s shirtless, in the presence of the fairer sex with nothing to cover him up, than he is in this moment. 

Wincing against the pain he sits up, crosses his arms in some semblance of modesty, and returns her stare. Looking at her closely as she is doing to him. She looks familiar, but he’s certain they’ve never met before. Where would they have? He lives in isolation on a backwater planet and she’s...well. She looks like she was born and grew up on one of the Core Worlds. Her clothing is ordinary, a simple black tunic tucked into a pair of form fitting black leggings, but the way she carries herself...she’s highborn, she has to be. No one looks that regal by chance.

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

This seems to break the girl’s reverie. She shakes her head minutely, backing up a bit, and unless he’s mistaken...a tinge of color blooms in her pallid cheeks. 

“Guards!”

It’s the first word out of her and it makes him jump. Her voice is sweeter than he imagined, lilting, but there’s a hardness to it that immediately puts him on edge. 

This uneasy feeling grows when the door behind her opens with a hiss and two stormtroopers march in, both of them armed with blasters. 

Has she just called a firing squad because he asked her name? Are his brains about to decorate these walls for sanitation crew to clean up later? 

_Gods, what has he done?_

He closes his eyes, bracing himself, but the sound of blaster fire never comes. Instead, he hears her voice again. It’s quiet, dangerous, compelling. He finds himself wanting to answer the question she poses, even though he doesn’t know the answer himself. 

“Who gave the order to do anything more than stun this man?” 

Ben opens his eyes again. The two stormtroopers look at each other, then back to the girl, their unease so plain to see in their stiff posture and the way they clutch their blasters like lifelines. 

“ _Answer me,_ ” she whispers. 

The stormtrooper to the left of her does so immediately, his voice eerily monotone. “No one gave the orders, Your Majesty.”

“What did General Phasma do? I told her to lead this mission. Did she not?”

“She did. She stunned the asset and left three of us to process him.”

“Did she say anything about touching so much as a hair on his head?”

The stormtrooper stumbles over the next word, like he’s trying to keep it hidden from her, but it comes out anyway. “N-n-o—”

“So _why did you_?”

The stormtrooper who answered starts making a strange choking noise. He drops his blaster then clutches at his throat like he’s gasping for breath. 

The air grows thick with something Ben can’t place. Some sort of energy. A negative energy that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like they do when he hears Anooba wolves howl late at night. They’re predators native to Tatooine, bloodthirsty and feral. 

This girl...she reminds him of them. 

With a sickening crunch, the stormtrooper collapses in a heap on the ground. 

Ben stares at the body across from him, his own body petrified, unable to do so much as blink. The stormtrooper’s limbs are bent at an awkward angle on the floor. The soldier isn’t breathing, isn’t crying out in pain. The man is dead. 

By the girl’s hand. 

Her _hand_. 

Ben’s eyes dart from the trooper to her small clenched fist, feeling bile rise in his throat. 

She...she did something with it, something simple, but that was enough to snap the man’s neck. 

What happens next is even worse to witness.

With a flick of her wrist, the other stormtrooper is wrenched from his feet and _slammed_ into the ceiling. She keeps him there, held aloft, as her soft voice echoes off the cell’s walls. 

“ _You will take this man to the med bay and ensure that his wounds are seen to_.”

The trooper whimpers, convulsing like his body is failing him, but he robotically repeats the words back to her. “I - I will take this man to the med bay and ensure that his wounds are seen to.” 

“ _Then you will report to General Phasma with the other traitor who has caused my guest harm. You will tell her that the Empress has ordered your execution_.” 

“Then I will—”

Before he can finish parroting her orders, the trooper drops back down to the floor on top of his dead partner with a scream. 

The girl regards his agony with an impassive expression, hands clutched behind her back as the trooper seizes again and again, contorting himself into unnatural positions like he’s possessed. A pool of what can only be urine spreads across the floor, the air taking on the acrid stench of it. 

The trooper has completely lost control of his bodily functions, and she’s _still_ showing him no mercy. 

Clambering onto the bed with trembling limbs, Ben uses his remaining energy to yell at her, trying to be heard over the screams of the stormtrooper. 

“STOP! _STOP IT_!”

The trooper’s sounds of anguish fade away, only to be replaced by heavy sobs. 

Breathing harshly, trying not to vomit, Ben meets the girl’s eyes across the short distance of the cell. Her hazel eyes now have a yellow gleam to them he hadn’t noticed before, but they’re hollow, haunted, soulless. 

_WHO ARE YOU_?, he means to say, but she leaves the cell before he can get any more words out.

It’s only later, when the doomed stormtrooper is escorting his grav-stretcher through the winding, Gods-forsaken halls of whatever cursed ship they’re on, that he realizes he knows the answer to her identity already. Everything is coming back to him as he replays the gruesome scene in the cell over and over again. 

One word stands out, something she had called herself, and it’s this word that chills him to the bone:

 _Empress_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the amazing response to the first chapter! I'm being responsible with writing ahead for once, so expect an update to this every weekend ♥️


	3. Chapter 3

On Tatooine, injuries were something you dealt with as best as you could. 

Med packs were a privilege, never a guarantee. 

Bacta patches were something you oftentimes had to barter for - with water, with food. Sometimes you just went without and hoped that wounds didn’t fester, that infections didn’t spread. 

Ben was lucky in that regard. Extremely lucky. He’d had a few minor scares over the years - a bite from a sandsnake, deep cuts and burns from working with his hands, one unfortunate collision with a speeder that had blown out his back - but for the most part, he’d managed to steer clear of situations (and people) that would cause him harm. He used to joke with himself that he had a guardian angel looking out for him. Someone who told him ‘ _don’t step on that rock, Ben, there’s a brain spider underneath!’_

or:

 _‘Best not go into Mos Eisley today; the Hutt cartel has been quiet recently and might be planning something_.’

Now, he recognizes it for what it is: an intuition, a feeling. Something that has been sharply honed from years and years of living on his own, but not infallible. 

If it had been infallible, he wouldn’t have ended up here on an Imperial warship. His mind weak, his body broken. He would still be on Tatooine with Artoo. At home. Not much of a home, but still home.

Ben sighs, feeling his eyes droop. He hadn’t gone into the bacta suit willingly, entirely unfamiliar with what it was, so a med droid had seen fit to unceremoniously inject him with a heavy sedative. _For the nerves_. 

It is, admittedly, making those go away. And the bacta suit, albeit cumbersome, is doing its job. He’s not in pain anymore. He feels weightless, untethered from his battered and bruised physical form. He’d be in a bad state if it weren’t for the medical advancements he’s been given here already and for that, at least, he is grateful. For that, he is able to sleep. A deep, restorative sleep that he hasn’t experienced in years.

When he comes to, he’s in a different bed. Not in the prison cell, nor the upgraded bed in the med bay. This one...it’s enormous. _Big enough for him_. He’s never been afforded such a luxury. The sheets are cool beneath his skin, made of some sleek material he’s never experienced before. There are _multiple_ pillows, all of them amazingly comfortable. A far cry from the lumpy, hardened excuse for one that he uses back home. And what he’s wearing...clean, soft sleep clothes in a dark grey. Nothing ragged, nothing sweat-stained like he’s used to. 

Ben sits up, taking in his surroundings. 

Much like the bed, wherever he is, the space is enormous, all dark flooring and walls with a sweeping views of the stars through a large viewport. There isn’t just one room, either. There’s a doorway opposite the bed and beyond that, what appears to be living quarters. To the left of him, another door, this one closed. A ‘fresher on the other side, he assumes. A ‘fresher with running water, maybe, not just a sonic shower? Gods, he hopes so. He’s suddenly dying of thirst, a clue that he may have been out cold longer than he thinks. 

He tears off his covers and leaps from the bed, anxious to see if he’s right about the ‘fresher. 

This proves to be a mistake as his legs are still weak. The second he plants one on the floor, he stumbles, just as he had in the cell. 

And just as before, gravity seems to slow, breaking his fall. 

The invisible thread is back.

Ben glances towards the entryway, though he can already feel a presence there. The one he’d felt last time, when he awoke in the prison cell.

_Hers._

She’s leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. No hand held out this time, but he knows she’s doing it. _It_ being...whatever she did the first time. With her mind. Holding him up. Choking that stormtrooper to death. Torturing the other one. Ben’s nausea comes back in full force, as does his fear, but he’s stronger this time. He’s braver. 

“Where am I?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

With one lazy wave of her hand, he’s gently lowered down to the floor. _How_ does she do it? What is it?

“Where am I?” he repeats, when she isn’t forthcoming, back to that unnerving staring of hers. 

She shifts just a bit, her eyes leaving his to glance about the room. “Your quarters,” she answers simply. Her voice is soothing now, no malice or venom from when she'd dealt with the stormtroopers. 

“ _My_ quarters?”

A nod, followed by more shifting. She’s wearing a black dress in lieu of a tunic and leggings this time, he belatedly realizes, but she doesn’t look very comfortable in it. The top half is covered in intricate beadwork that shows off her pale skin, the skirts on the bottom half hugging her hips and legs tight. 

Ben swallows thickly, averting his gaze. “Why do I have quarters? Aren’t I a prisoner?”

“No. You’re my guest.”

He looks up again at that. _Guest_? She’s called him guest before, he remembers now. Back in the cell. 

Right before she referred to herself as Empress. 

The weight of that, the realization, hits him so strong that he's robbed of breath. 

He’s in the presence of an Empress. 

_The_ Empress. 

Even out in the Outer Rim, word had spread of her ascension. Her grandfather, long assumed dead, had arisen from the ashes of the first Empire with a fleet strong enough to wipe out even the most stubborn of rebellions. And what had she done in the face of such a display of power? This slip of a girl, who doesn’t look a day over twenty? 

She’d beheaded her predecessor, then taken everything for herself. 

Nearly a year later, the galaxy is still reeling. Unlike the men who came before her, she has instilled a new sort of fear: of a young woman rising up and slaying her elders, laying waste to all those who would seek to silence or control her. 

The fact that she’s now in search of a royal consort intensifies the terror a thousandfold. The news has thrown the upper echelons of the galaxy into despair. All eligible lifeforms are preparing for the worst. Noblemen, noblewomen. Queens and Kings of powerful planets, of star systems. Princes and Princesses. High ranking politicians, military generals and wealthy tradespeople. 

Everyone else - _commoners_ \- are considered safe, but still waiting with bated breath to see who it will be. 

Ben had never understood the upset, so far removed from the conflict on Tatooine. He’d kept his head in the sand. Literally. Sometimes he went weeks without hearing any galaxywide news at all, and that suited him just fine. He hadn’t even known what the Empress looked like, neither had he cared. She didn’t affect him. He’d taken comfort in the fact that not much would change in the grand scheme of things for nobody moisture farmers like him. 

But now...

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake.” Ben pulls himself back up onto the bed, grasping at the sheets. He suspects she’s helping him manage it in some way, because it’s much easier to accomplish than it should be, given his bed bound state. It’s humiliating, infantilizing, and he inwardly bristles at this subtle display of her power. 

“There hasn’t been a mistake.”

He sits up against the headboard, staring at her across the room. “I’m a moisture farmer. From Tatooine.” He says it slowly, much more for his benefit than hers; her intelligence is palpable, electric, like a current flowing through her. She doesn’t need it spelled out, but he does. He needs to remind himself of where he’s from. That this isn’t anywhere close to normal. 

“I’m aware,” she answers. 

Ben tries to rephrase. “I’m a commoner. I’m poor. Poor as dirt.” 

She nods once. “Yes.” 

Ben opens and closes his mouth in quick succession, completely at a loss. 

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. 

She wants _him_ as a consort?

“Why?” he asks. 

She cocks her head. “Why not?”

“I just told you why not.”

“Those reasons don’t matter.”

“To me they do. This is - I can’t—” He stifles down a hysterical laugh he can feel forming in his throat. Breathe, he needs to breathe. He can get out of this. He can. He has to. If he weren’t so kriffing thirsty, maybe he could more easily reason with her.

That line of thought comes to an abrupt halt as he’s once again hit with the magnitude of the situation. 

Easily reason with her? The Empress? 

The girl who’d beheaded the most fearsome dictator the galaxy has ever seen? 

Who’d thrown two fully grown men around like they were toy dolls, so easily discarded and destroyed? 

_Is he actually insane?_

“Can I...have some water?”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. Silence follows his request, and Ben holds his breath. 

Yes, yes, he is insane. 

He’s gone mad and he very clearly has a death wish, asking the _Empress_ of the kriffing _Galaxy_ for a glass of water. 

Ben wets his dry, cracked lips, trying to think of how he could possibly backtrack, when: 

“Yes, of course you can.” 

Stunned, he watches her disappear into the living quarters again. She’s only gone a handful of seconds before she comes back, holding a glass of water in one hand. 

A glass of water with ice. _Ice_. 

She approaches him slowly, cautiously, like _he’s_ the dangerous one and not her. When she’s only a few feet away from him she holds out the glass for him to take. Ben eyes it warily, his traitorous mind tracking the newly formed beads of condensation clinging to the outside of it. 

Stars, it looks so cold, so refreshing, that if she _has_ done something with it, well...he’s taking that chance. He’s taking it, fool that he is. 

The first sip is beyond paradise. There’s no lingering taste of dirt, of sediment to the water. Water on Tatooine doesn’t taste like this. This tastes like...nothing, and yet it’s everything. Everything he’s never had. 

He drinks it down so fast, he chokes a bit, spluttering on the water, droplets of it dripping down his beard. He wipes his mouth with his arm, defiantly staring her down. _Yes, I’m a filthy commoner with no table manners. Not so appealing of a consort now, am I?_

But she doesn’t say anything.

She just takes his glass when he’s done. Goes back to the living quarters, returns with _another_ glass of water. Hands it to him, her face soft.

Almost...nurturing. 

That she could be capable of compassion, in the wake of everything he’s seen her do so far...

Ben shakes his head, warding off such thoughts. “No thank you. One glass was enough. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I would like to leave now.” 

Her softness is gone in a flash, her mouth downturned into a scowl. “You have nothing on Tatooine.”

“I do, actually. A droid. A home. A farm. A job that I do. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Tatooine but it’s dry. Water is scarce. If I’m not there, then—”

He‘s only just now considered the ramifications, and he feels nauseous all over again when he pictures what will happen if he doesn’t return to his homestead. If Tusken raiders haven’t pilfered it already, stealing his droid and the water they believe is their sacred right, they surely will. He’ll be out of water for days, or weeks. He’ll be out of a livelihood. 

Even worse, people will suffer. Good, hardworking people who depend on his water each week at the market. His prices are fair, better than anyone else’s. He repeatedly suffers a loss when he pockets a fraction of what others earn, but gratitude from customers more than makes up for it. Children come to his market stall because they know he’ll give them a cup free of charge, no questions asked. 

Who will they turn to if he’s gone? 

“How long have I been here? When was I captured?” he asks, his voice tinged with anxiety now, as much as he’s tried to stamp it down.

“You were acquired, not captured.”

Ben rears back, stunned. Is she seriously trying to deny that taking him against his will _isn’t_ a capture? 

The resolute look to her eye, the stubborn set of her jaw, answers that for him. Yes, she’s serious. And arguing semantics with her is pointless, he sees that now. She’s trying to distract from the crux of the matter. 

“Fine. When was I acquired?”

“You will have everything you need here. Everything you could want. A new droid, if you wish. A home. Food, water. You won’t need employment. You’ll be under my protection.” 

Ben huffs out a breath, his patience thinning. “ _How long_?”

She pauses, her fists clenching. She’s gripping the glass of water so tight, he’s afraid she’ll break it. “A week.”

A _week_. He’s been here a whole week already. Ben shakes his head, unable to accept it. 

“No. _No_. That’s too long. I have to go.” He’s halfway off the bed before he remembers he can’t exactly walk. Still, he tries, holding onto the edge as he painstakingly hobbles. His legs buckle after only a few steps.

When he feels the invisible thread tighten around him again, that’s when he truly loses it, his rising hysteria reaching a breaking point. 

_“_ LET GO OF ME!” 

“ _You will get back onto the bed_.”

There’s a pressure in his skull, thoughts jamming into his head that aren’t his, quickly taking control of his body. “I will—” 

He fights back against it. He doesn’t know how, but he does, and it’s about as comfortable as removing a thousand sharp Loth cat claws from his brain. He pushes out mentally, dispelling whatever hold she has on him. The mental force causes him to collapse in a heap on the floor again, gasping. 

The glass drops from her hands, shattering into pieces, water pooling about his feet. 

Then she’s kneeling down beside him, trying to take his face into her hands. Her eyes take on a fanatic, unhinged gleam as he tries to push her away in vain. 

“Stop, _stop—_ ”

“I _knew_ it. I could sense it. An awakening. It’s _you_.”

 _What_ is she talking about?

Ben grabs hold of her wrists, prying her hands off his cheeks. She’s smiling now, like he’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. Like he’s the answer to every question she’s ever had. It terrifies him. 

“You fought them. Three stormtroopers. Every step of the way, even after you were stunned multiple times. I searched their memories, I saw it happen. Still I could hardly believe it, but now...”

He doesn’t remember a thing, just the blaster shot. He took on _three_ stormtroopers after being stunned? He’s never heard of that happening. But that isn’t even the most alarming part of what she’s saying. 

She searched the stormtrooper’s _memories_? 

Why does it frighten him, why does it set off every warning in his head, that she can do such a thing? He doesn’t have anything to hide, but if this ability is similar to what she just did to him, controlling his mind… 

He shudders, drawing in on himself. “Don’t do that to me. Please.”

“I won’t. If you stay here where you belong. With me.”

“I don’t belong here!” he yells, desperately, but it falls on deaf ears. 

She rises to her feet again, lithe as a panther, and extends her hand to him. A hand that can do unspeakably evil things, things that will haunt him for the rest of his life. “Stand with me and take your place by my side, as my consort. My apprentice. Sharpen your power, claim your gift.” 

“Gift? _WHAT GIFT_?!” 

She smiles again, this time baring her pearly white teeth, and his blood runs cold at the sight. 

“The Force.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See ya next week for an update! 😎


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t take her hand, outstretched though it is. 

Instead, he waits. For what, he doesn’t know. For her to strike him down. For her to call upon this _Force_ and use it to get what she wants out of him.

Silence descends, their labored breathing the only sounds piercing the heaviness of the moment. He doesn’t cower from her this time, though he’s shaking from what he’s just done. From what he did to remove her talons from his mind. 

Ever so slowly, she lowers her hand back to her side. 

“You won’t join me.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. Her voice is completely flat, emotionless. The barely contained excitement that he heard before is gone. He’s disappointed her. _Her_. Empress Palpatine. 

“It’s—” He takes extreme care, approaching this as delicately as he is able. 

What can he say, to someone who wants this much of him? 

How can he deny a woman so powerful? A woman who has already made it clear that she will invade his mind if he does?

It’s glaringly obvious that reasoning with her is dangerous, an open flirtation with death, but there isn’t any other way out of this short of physically fighting her. And he’s not doing that. He may be foolish, but he knows she’d crush him if he tried it. He’d suffer the same fate as the stormtroopers. 

He has to meet her in the middle, then. Compromising, negotiating. He’s done it before, many a time. It’s necessary for surviving a desert world, where both credits and natural resources are in short supply. And it’s proving necessary for his survival now. It can’t be that much different…maybe. He’s never bargained with an Empress before. Junk dealers, yes. Jawas, sure. 

Ben swallows, cautiously watching her. Taking her in as she watches him right back. His eyes are drawn to the form fitting dress she’s wearing. The long braid her brown hair is woven into. The pink of her lips, set against such a pale face. 

No, she is...definitely not a Jawa. She’s very much human. A young and _female_ human. He has no experience here. He’s painfully out of his depth. 

But he can _try._ Try to understand her, try to see if she’ll understand him. It’s the only option he has to retain some sort of autonomy. 

“It’s not a no,” he manages, keeping his voice soft. The softer he keeps it, the less threatening he’ll appear. Maybe she’ll be more inclined to listen to him if he doesn’t scream and yell himself hoarse like before. 

“It’s not a yes,” she retorts, her words still stilted. She’s clenching her fists again. Not a good sign. 

“But not a no,” he emphasizes, stalling. Think, think. He needs to think. And breathe. Hyperventilating all over again isn’t going to do him any favors, not now. “I can’t adequately put into words how I feel. That you’ve chosen me. Not yet.” It’s the truth. His current feelings are a running chorus of _GET ME THE KRIFF OUT OF HERE,_ screeching at top volume in his head. She wouldn’t want to hear that. “I think I need...time. To process this.” 

“How much time?”

 _Kriff_. Good question. How much time _does_ he need? How much time would she even allow him? Does he even know what to _do_ with this time if it’s given to him? 

“A week?”

It was a mistake, inflecting his voice like that. Making it into question. He can already tell by the glint in her eye that she knows he’s uncertain, that she’s going to exploit this perceived weakness. 

“You’ve already been here for a week.”

Ben clenches his jaw. Breathe. Keep breathing. _Be reasonable_. “I was asleep for all of it.”

“And?”

“That gave me no time to think. I was sedated and forced into a bacta suit. It kept me out of it for days.”

“It was necessary. You needed to recover. You were injured.”

Intense anger flares in him again, but he‘s able to control it this time, channel it into conviction. He’s not going to back down, but he’s not going to lose his temper. That’s what she probably wants. For him to seem the unreasonable one so she can have the upper hand. 

“Injured by your stormtroopers, yes. They took me from my home and brought me here. I had no time to prepare, no time to put my affairs in order. I need to do that at the very least. Collect my droid, see if someone can manage my farm.” _While I’m away_ , he doesn’t say. She wants his stay to be permanent, and he wants it to be very much temporary. That will be a source of contention, he can already tell, but he’d rather not start now. Not when he’s trying to bargain with her. “If I can return for only a few days, then—” 

“No! You’re staying here.”

Ben stops short, surprised by the urgency in her voice. “It wouldn’t be for long. And I could take an escort with me, if you’re worried about me escaping—” 

“I’m _not_.” 

But it looks like she is. She seems far less certain of herself now. Shifting again, foot to foot. Color high in her cheeks, her eyes wide and childlike with something akin to panic. 

It’s this look that possesses him to voice an impossible question. 

“Would you come with me?” 

“...What?” She says it in barely above a whisper, so incredulous that he almost doesn’t elaborate, but he does anyway. Taking a chance. 

“You. With me. On Tatooine.” He nods, trying to convince himself just as much as her that this isn’t an insane idea. “It isn’t much to look at. But I think seeing the work I do will help you to understand what I’m...giving up. Leaving behind.” 

Maybe she’ll change her mind, once she sees his reality. Where he’s come from. He’s learned to live in the Jundland Wastes, but they’re no place for an Empress - and like him, no one who lives there is fit company for an Empress, either. Poor laborers, most of them. Hardened criminals the closer to Mos Eisley you get. Once she sees the poverty, once she experiences it, he hopes she’ll leave him in the dust. He hopes he becomes a distant memory to her. Just a funny story that she can tell at fancy dinner parties. _I almost took a moisture farmer for my consort, can you believe it? I’m glad I finally saw some sense._

“You’re staying _here_ ,” she repeats. “You’re still weak. Too weak to even stand. You think you can go back to where you’re from in your state?”

To prove his point, Ben grasps hold of the bed again and hoists himself up onto his wobbly knees. He doesn’t feel her aiding him this time, and that fleeting sense of triumph gives him the strength to stand completely, leaning against the bed for support. 

“I’m _not_ weak.” Although he sounds like it, out of breath and voice trembling on the last word, she doesn’t argue back this time. More sure of himself, he continues, “And I’m not asking for much. I don’t want credits. I don’t want riches. I want to make sure the place I call home - the place that other people _like me_ call home - won’t fall by the wayside if I’m no longer there. That’s all. Can you give me that?”

“You care about a place that’s stolen the spirit from you?” Her lip curls into a sneer. At him or his words he can’t be sure, but that doesn’t matter. Getting her to listen is.

“Yes, I care. Is that something that you’ve stopped doing? Something that is no longer important in your position?”

“Don’t presume to know anything about me!” she hisses. 

“Then don’t presume to know anything about me, either!”

Ben quickly snaps his mouth shut after that, but the damage has already been done. He’s lost her. The fire in her eyes, the barely suppressed fury radiating from her in waves...he can’t come back from this. He lost control of his emotions for _one_ second and this is what it’s cost him. A chance of freedom.

“I misspoke, I’m sorry,” he tries, stumbling towards her, hands held up in a placating gesture. A desperate, last ditch effort to plead his case. 

With a push of her own hand, Ben flies backwards. 

He lands on his back in the bed, square in the middle of it, painlessly but with the breath knocked out of him. 

“Stay in your bed and _know your place_.”

Those words, flung at him like poison darts, are the last thing she says before she leaves. The door to the living area closes behind her with a hiss, complete and utter silence descending in her wake. 

Stars dance in his eyes as he stares up at the dark ceiling above him, and it isn’t long before hot, shameful tears begin to blur his vision altogether. 

***

With a metallic screech, the Empress slices cleanly through another training droid with her saberstaff. The floor of the vast training arena is already littered with broken pieces of others. She kicks this one aside with a shout while at the same time Force pulling another one towards her, already hacking away at it. She’s not having a good day, that much is clear. Her anger is palpable, darkness shrouding her like a heavy cloud of smoke.

“How long has she been at that?” a voice wheezes. 

Vicrul Ren glances up from where she’s sprawled out on the floor for a short break, meeting the ugly mug of Ushar. He looks even worse upside down, the breathing tubes that he uses without his mask grotesque and clogged. She doesn’t know how he’s even able to draw in breath like that. _Disgusting_. Just like the other two men who she unfortunately calls her fellow Knights. What the Empress sees in them she doesn’t know, but neither does she question her Mistress. 

“Hours. What’s it to you?” She pushes to stand, reveling in the few short inches she has on Ushar. Without the height that his heavy boots afford him, he has to look up just a _bit_ to meet her eyes, and it never fails to humor her. 

“Trudgen was talking.”

“Maybe he should shut up.”

“He said that a sanitation trooper saw her storming away from the rooms of that man she found. The giant.”

Vicrul scoffs. “Yes, he must seem a giant compared to you.” 

Ever the eavesdropper, Cardo uses this moment to leave his target practice behind and involve himself. And where Cardo goes, Trudgen follows. They’re inseparable and share one single brain cell. The only useful thing it does is tell them to FIGHT, nothing else. 

“You’re talking about him, aren’t you? The _consort_?” Cardo’s regal brow furrows and he practically spits out the last word. It’s no secret that he was hoping the Empress would choose him. He has Old Imperial roots and he’s the most heavily armed among them, absolutely lethal in close combat. With his blond hair and blue eyes he’s classically handsome, too, but that hadn’t been enough for the Empress. She’d chosen someone else. Some stranger, a nobody. A mere moisture farmer. Cardo is _still_ smarting over a week later. 

“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you. Get back to shooting.” 

She makes to leave but he catches her arm, holding it fast. His mistake. Her reflexes are sharper than his; she has him flipped over onto his back, incapacitated, before he can so much as blink. 

“Try it again and I’ll bury my scythe in your thick skull,” she promises. 

“Would you just answer the damn question, cunt?”

“ _What_ did you call her?”

Ap’Lek’s voice, right behind her. She’s always sneaking up unaware and normally it drives Vicrul mad but in this instance, she’s grateful. She needs someone to have her back. 

“If she’s being a cunt I’ll call her a cunt!” Cardo snaps, but his ire quickly fades when he sees Kuruk approach from the other side of the training floor. She normally keeps to herself, aloof in the same way that the Empress is. The men are terrified of her though they’d never admit to it. She’s an expert markswomen. The sniper and pilot of their group. No one has any doubt who would win if she turned against them all one day. 

“Is there a problem?” she asks, her obsidian eyes darting from Cardo to Vicrul.

“No.” Cardo pushes to his feet again, casting a withering glance at them all before walking away, Trudgen and Ushar trailing behind him like the loyal slugs they are. 

“Men,” Ap’Lek mutters, spitting onto the training floor. Vicrul’s sour mood lightens a bit at this open display of contempt. The Knight is the youngest and smallest among them with a heart shaped face and button nose to match. When she isn’t wearing her intimidating armor or mask, any rough behavior out of her is endearing. Like a Loth kitten pretending to be a tiger. _Adorable_ , some would even say, but certainly not to her face. Ap’Lek would strike you down with her axe if you so much as hinted at that. 

“Thank you. Sometimes it feels like we’re outnumbered even though we aren’t.” Vicrul nods at both women, then across the room at the Empress. Their Mistress is not paying any mind to the conflict between her Knights, still slashing away at the droids. The entire back of her top is soaked with sweat and the three buns of her hair are drenched in it, too. How long can she keep going at such a frenzied pace before her body shuts down? Should they say something, intervene, even if the risk is getting speared on either end of her vicious, spitting saberstaff? 

“We’ll find out what’s troubling her eventually. Until then, it isn’t our concern. We don’t _gossip_ ,” Kuruk says, her tone making it clear which other three Knights do this in excess. “We train, we practice. Yes?”

“Yes,” Vicrul and Ap’Lek answer in tandem. 

As always, Kuruk’s intuition proves correct. Everyone is winding down for the day, cleaning up their areas and putting their weapons back in storage, when the Empress finally, _finally_ extinguishes her saber, clicking the hinged hilt back into place.

All six Knights watch her leave while trying not to make it obvious that they’re doing so. She’s halfway out the door when she barks out,

“Vicrul Ren, follow me.” 

Vicrul dons her helmet and immediately obeys the command, ignoring her racing thoughts and Cardo’s smug grin as she passes him. She hasn’t done anything except defend herself, and surely the Empress will understand that. 

“Your Majesty?” she calls, jogging to keep up with the Empress and her quick pace. “Permission to speak candidly?”

“Granted.” 

“If this is about earlier with Cardo Ren—”

“It isn’t.”

 _Good. That’s good_. In her haste to follow, Vicrul narrowly sidesteps a line of troopers headed in the opposite direction to the upper levels — meaning the Empress is taking her closer to her private quarters in the belly of the ship. A place she’s only been on rare occasions when needed. 

Of similar build and height to the Empress, with a resemblance in their facial features too, Vicrul has served as her body double before. Usually when the Empress has pressing matters to attend to planetside, but also needs to keep up appearances on the _Supremacy_. With cleverly applied cosmetics and a change of clothes, no one has ever been the wiser. General Hux had even addressed Vicrul as Empress when she’d been in full regalia, practically trembling in his boots at the sight of her. 

Vicrul smiles behind her mask at the memory. Yes, that had been an unexpected perk of the job. She hopes to do it again. He gets adorably red in the face when he’s scared. 

They descend to the lower levels via turbolift. Even with the considerable speed of the transport, it will take them several minutes to reach their destination. Several minutes Vicrul has to spend in an enclosed space with the Empress. It’s not awkward, exactly, yet she can’t help but feel on edge once the doors close and the lift drops. 

“I’m using you as my double again.”

Vicrul nods in understanding. She’d been right, then. She’ll be standing in. For how long she isn’t sure, but she doesn’t speak out of turn, waiting for the Empress to elaborate. 

“I have a personal matter to see to. I trust you’ll assume my duties to the best of your ability until I return in a week’s time.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Vicrul dutifully answers, but she can’t help but balk underneath the safety of her helmet. A _week_? She’s never been disguised for that long before. One or two days, yes. But an entire week? 

“I sense apprehension in you.”

Every muscle tenses and Vicrul stifles a curse. _Shit_. She really needs to stop projecting so loudly. She doesn’t want it to become a problem.

“A bit apprehensive, yes. But you have given me this task and I will see it through.”

It’s not a lie when phrased just so. The Empress has zero tolerance for dishonesty, and every Knight has learned that lesson the hard way — the men more often than the women, because they have Bantha brains. 

“I will be on the Outer Rim planet of Tatooine. Only you will know my coordinates. I won’t be taking any Knights with me. If they ask where I’ve gone, silence them how you see fit.”

It’s more than unusual, her not taking any security to such a frontier world, but Vicrul knows better than to doubt the ability of the Empress to defend herself. She’ll be just fine, especially given the anonymity of the Ren uniform. 

“Yes, of course. I will do that, Your Majesty.”

They spend the rest of the trip in silence, just until the very end. The doors open but the Empress stays still. “Another thing. I want you to pay someone a visit today. Talk to them. While I make preparations for my absence.”

The Empress turns to her, and it’s the first time that Vicrul has ever seen her look less than sure of herself. She seems smaller, her eyes impossibly tired, her shoulders slumped inward. 

Almost in defeat.

“What do you know about dealing with...difficult men?”

Vicrul doesn’t need time to consider the question. She deals with difficult men every day of her life. Ushar, Trudgen, and Cardo. Communally living with them. Training with them. Fighting against their barbs thrown so casually and laced with sexism. Difficult men have become what she hates more than anything. The bane of her existence. What does she _know_ about them?

“Too much, Your Majesty.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florence Pugh is Ap'Lek, thanks for coming to my TED Talk 😌
> 
> Shoutout to my betas Michelle and Keely for looking this over so quickly!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** this chapter includes a scene where Ben punches a mirror and cuts himself badly. If you’d like to avoid the graphic mentions of blood, skip reading from _“The first punch to the mirror” to “I need a medical droid to room 6826A. Hurry.”_

Ben hasn’t seen himself in awhile.

He had a mirror on Tatooine, a handheld one. Cracked and dirty, splitting his reflection into different pieces. He sometimes used it to shave his beard or trim his hair, but gave up on that long ago. As the years bled into each other and his twenties gave way to his thirties, his outward appearance became of little concern. He would go days without seeing anyone and when he did, no one cared about how he looked. Everyone in town was just as grizzled as him. 

Now, though, in this foreign and sterile environment...

Ben rakes his hand down his face, staring back at his reflection in the ‘fresher mirror. 

Odd. He looks odd, and for what feels like the thousandth time, he wonders what an Empress could see in someone like him.

He’s almost _too_ tall, his head just a few inches shy of touching the ceiling. His hair reaches his shoulders, untamed and tangled, and his facial hair isn’t much better, scraggly and coarse. His ears are hidden, though. That’s a plus. 

Ben turns to the side, considering. 

He’s bulked up a bit, too, growing into his figure. No longer as lanky or gangly as he remembers. He supposes he has his manual labor to thank for that. 

“Won’t last for much longer, though,” he mutters. If he’s stuck here for the foreseeable future with nothing to do, he’ll waste away. Physically and mentally. He’s already growing more stir crazy with every passing minute. Pushing himself to walk again helped for a bit. He’s spent the last several hours combing over every nook and cranny of this place. It started out as trying to find a means of escape, a way out, but that fleeting hope left as soon as he realized the main door to his quarters locks from the outside. There’s no keypad. 

This place is a prison. It may be much bigger than a cell, but it still feels like one to him. A prison. And he’s a prisoner. He already looks like one, unkempt and ragged as he is. 

Ben raises his fist, consumed with the urge to smash the mirror to pieces so he doesn’t have to see himself, so that he doesn’t have to be reminded that his life isn’t his anymore. Maybe he even _wants_ to hurt himself. Make himself bleed. At least that would make him feel something aside from this restlessness, this agitation. 

Before his flesh can connect with the surface, he hears the telltale sign of a door hissing open. 

_Shit._

Fast as his still-unsteady legs can carry him, he hobbles out of the ‘fresher and back to the bedroom, throwing himself across the bed. Only a few seconds pass before the door to the bedroom opens, too, and she strides in. 

Wearing...a mask? 

Ben sits up, taking in this change of appearance. The coat she has on is one he hasn’t seen before, either. Heavy leather by the looks of it, scales covering the surface. A threatening-looking blaster pistol holstered to her hip. 

“How goes the invalid?”

Her voice is different. Deeper, modulated, but still unmistakably female. 

Ben doesn’t answer, averting his gaze. 

“Sulking? Poor thing. Uprooted from nowhere and placed on the right hand side of the most powerful person in the Galaxy. Must be tough being you, moisture farmer. Maybe you should cry about it, let it all out. I do love to seeing grown men cry, especially ones as stoic as you.” 

She draws nearer to him, perching on the end of the bed. She’s far more talkative than before. This is the most he’s ever heard her speak, in fact. He doesn’t like it. It makes his skin crawl, being on the receiving end of words so cruel. Still, he doesn’t respond, doesn’t give in to her taunts. If this is a new method she’s using, he’d rather suffer in silence than ever let her know it’s getting to him. 

She huffs out a breath at his continued reticence and then pulls her black gloves off. He spies dainty little hands with fingernails painted black. Tanned hands. A few shades darker than he remembers them being. 

That’s when he realizes something is off. 

This isn’t even _her_. 

Ben rears back, looking in all possible directions for something he can use to defend himself.

“Woah, woah, easy. I’m not here to hurt you,” whoever it is under the mask reassures him, holding up her hands as if that will somehow placate him. “I just want to talk. Hear your side of things.”

“ _Who are you_?” he grits out, watching with bated breath as she unhooks her blaster from her belt. She holds it up for him to see, slow and deliberate, then throws it over her shoulder with reckless abandon. It hits the wall with a loud bang, clattering to the floor, but thankfully doesn’t fire. 

_What the hell?_

“There, now I’m harmless. Well, mostly. I can do this thing where I project fear but you seem to be feeling enough of that already without my help. So you good? Can we chat?”

Is he _good_? A stranger has just barged in here, invading what little semblance of privacy he has left, and she asks if he’s _good_? 

“Leave.” He rolls off the bed, limping backwards towards the ‘fresher. She follows him, not to be thwarted. “Whoever you are, leave. Just leave. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. _Please_ leave me alone!” 

She hums, quickly covering her hand over the ‘fresher keypad when he tries to close the door. “So polite even when you’re distressed. Not what I expected. At all.”

Ben backs up, no place to hide. No place to run. 

Another glimpse at his reflection turns out to be a mistake. He looks frightened, scared. Like a little boy. He hates it. He _hates_ himself. When did he become so helpless, so pitiful? Why can’t he be braver, suck it up, show no fear? Confront whoever this trespasser is? Try to shoulder his way out of here? It’s disgusting, how utterly spineless he’s become in so short a time. He’s disgusting. He’s—

The first punch to the mirror splinters it, but doesn’t break it completely. 

Ben screams, throwing back his arm and hitting it again. 

This time, glass shatters everywhere. 

“Woah! HEY!” the stranger shouts. 

He keeps hitting and hitting and hitting, until smears of red cover what little of his reflection is left to see. 

“Stop! _STOP_! Don’t do that!”

She grabs hold of his arm but he pulls it out of her grasp just as quickly. 

_“Don’t_ touch me!”

“Don’t be an idiot! You’re bleeding!”

“ _GET AWAY FROM ME_!”

The rest of the glass falls to the floor in a rush, breaking into smaller, fragmented pieces. Above them, the lights flicker ominously. Once, twice. 

The stranger backs off, finally giving him space, and reaches into her jacket. Ben flinches, expecting the worst.

“Easy, easy. Calm down. It’s a com. I’m calling for help. You’re hurt.” 

“I’m _not_ ,” he argues, but he is. His brain is finally taking note of the sharp, searing pain in his hand. The rivulets of warm blood running down his fingers. He holds up his fist to study it, swaying where he stands. _Oh_. That’s...a lot. Too much. 

“I need a medical droid to room 6826A. _Hurry._ ” 

Her voice is lighter now, more human sounding, and he realizes distantly she’s removed her helmet. 

She looks...like _her_. The Empress. 

But not quite. Her dark hair is styled different, twisted into a halo on the top of her head. Her complexion is slightly darker, her wide eyes greener, her lips more plush. But the resemblance is there. Enough to confuse his already muddled thoughts.

Ben slumps to the ground and she follows, taking off her coat and wrapping it around his hand to staunch the bloodflow. It hurts like hell being squeezed so tight. She’s strong, much stronger than him. 

“Sisters?” he asks.

She stares back at him, not understanding, then huffs out a small laugh. 

“No. I’m her Knight. One of them, anyway. Sometimes her body double.” 

“Body double,” he echoes, trying to blink away the spots that are now in his vision. 

“Look, before you pass out - I was told to talk to you. But I went about this all wrong. I’m sorry. You - you’re different. Different than men I’m used to. You don’t deserve to be treated unkindly.” With her other hand she reaches up, tentatively, and brushes his hair from his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to pay for this. She’ll make sure of it.” Her face is blanched of color now. She’s scared. 

“Am I going to die?” he whispers. 

“No! Hell no. Not on my watch. You’ve just lost a lot of blood but it’ll be okay. I hope. Force willing. Med droid will be here any moment.” 

His eyes droop, but he’s able to form just enough words to slur out, “Your name?”

“Vicrul, sir. I mean - Your Majesty. Shit, I should probably get used to calling you that too. The wedding shouldn’t be far off. You’ll be emperor consort soon.”

“Vicrul.” He doesn’t process anything past her name, too dizzy to listen to her hurried words, his world going dark. “I’m Ben.”

***

The medical droid stabilizes him quickly, and the cleaning droid that arrives afterward removes any evidence of what happened in the ‘fresher. And yet…her hands are still stained red with his blood. Staining her conscience, or what little is left of it these days.

Vicrul swallows back the bile that she can feel rising in her throat as she enters the throne room. It’s an informal one, nestled in the private chambers of the Empress, but it’s still every bit as imposing as the red room in the upper levels of the _Supremacy_. 

The one that, though no one dares say his name anymore, belonged to the former Supreme Leader Snoke. He’d met his death at the end of a saberstaff, as had the former Emperor. Both of them destroyed, their legacies and power with them, to make way for the true heiress of the Dark Side. 

Vicrul kneels before her now, trying but failing to conceal her terror. She’s been trained not to fear death, but torture is a whole other beast. 

“How did he seem?” The Empress asks, peering down at a holopad. She’s already dressed for the trip in one of Vicrul’s more casual outfits. Black pants, black shirt, foregoing the heavy Panna dragonhide jacket due to Tatooine’s climate. She even has her hair pulled up in the way that Vicrul prefers, braids wrapped around the crown of her head. She’s disguised as Vicrul, and Vicrul will be disguised as her until she returns in a week. Though in light of what’s happened, the trip may have to be forestalled. All because of Vicrul’s stupidity. 

“He—” Vicrul chokes out, but stops short when the Empress looks up, meeting her gaze. Her preoccupied, neutral look quickly turns sharp, calculating, _angry_. 

“What did you do?” 

Vicrul can’t form the words she wants to say. That it was an accident, that she made a mistake. 

The Empress had said to talk to him. To make him see some sense. Vicrul had arrived at the moisture farmer’s rooms with every intention of having to browbeat a difficult, angry, uncooperative man into submission. 

Instead she had encountered a gentle giant. Soft spoken, weary. The weight on his shoulders had been palpable, as had the loneliness. Vicrul flinches, remembering the callous way she had spoken to him at first. Her treatment of him caused him to lash out, to hurt himself. And now she’s going to pay the consequences for acting so rashly.

“ _Speak,”_ her Mistress commands, her voice compelling Vicrul to do as she’s told. The words are forced from her unwilling throat, filling the charged silence that the room has descended into. 

“He hurt himself. He was scared, he was frightened. Of me. I pushed him to what must’ve been his limit and I shouldn't have. It’s my fault, your Majesty—”

Her words cut off abruptly, only to be replaced by screams as her mind is invaded, the memories pulled from her. Of him - _Ben_ \- cracking the mirror into hundreds of pieces. The lights flickering, manipulated by a raw and untamed power. _His_ power. How she had tried to stop the bleeding. How, even in his pain, he had asked for her name. 

Just as suddenly as the mind probe started, it stops. 

Vicrul falls on her side, gasping for breath, her body convulsing in aftershocks. She’s had this done to her before, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Pain is still pain, no matter how little or how much you can prepare for it. 

The Empress doesn’t speak to her afterward. She doesn’t do anything. When Vicrul dares to look up at her, she finds the Empress slumped forward, her head in her hands, breathing harshly. 

Vicrul stands, albeit shakily, and the Empress weakly flicks her wrist, dismissing her. 

The Knight knows better than to linger. She hurries from the throne room as fast as her unsteady legs can take her, unable to shake the foreboding sense that the fragile camaraderie between her and the Empress has been broken.

For good. 

*** 

Ben dreams of callused but gentle hands, rubbing something into the stinging cuts in his palms. The hands are cool to the touch, practiced in their motions like they’ve done this many times before. Kindly, softly. 

He can make out a blurred figure. Her face soft, her breath sweet, her hair piled into braids on the top of her head. 

Yes, he remembers now. 

The Knight, the body double. Her presence had been an unwelcome one at first, but what stands out more than that are the words she said as she held him, trying to keep him from bleeding out.

_I’m sorry. You’re different. Different than men I’m used to. You don’t deserve to be treated unkindly._

The apology, though so simple, is the nicest thing anyone has said to him in a long time. He’ll cherish her words, just as he will the way she’s tending to his injuries. 

“Vicrul. Thank you…” 

A sharp gasp.

Then, the soothing hands suddenly stop their ministrations. The loss is so acute and bone deep that Ben cries out brokenly, begging for another shred of human touch, of human kindness. 

“Please!”

“ _Rest,”_ she tells him instead, her voice quiet and sad. 

Ben obeys.

***

He sits up quickly, startled awake by a jolt of movement. He’s in an unfamiliar environment once more, no longer his living quarters. This room is smaller, more confined. He’s still in a comfortable bed, though. That’s something he can cling to, something to ground him amidst all the changes. He doesn’t have much else. 

“You’re awake.” 

Ben turns to his side. _Her_ again. The Empress. 

His guard is up immediately, recalling how she’d thrown him onto the bed like a nuisance. A disobedient _pet_. How she had let a stranger into his room. 

“Where am I?” 

She moves from the doorway, coming to sit down in a small chair across from his bed. She’s dressed in head-to-toe black as always, but she looks...unpolished. More human. Her hair is around her shoulders, wavy and tangled, like she’d pulled it down from a more elaborate up-do. She seems tired, her eyes strained and red. It almost looks like she’s been crying, though he knows better than to ever ask why.

“We’ve just jumped to hyperspace.”

 _Hyperspace_. That would explain the motion that woke him. 

He’s being taken somewhere. _Again._ Against his will. Ben’s fight leaves him in an exhale of breath. He can’t do anything about his current situation while they’re traveling at lightspeed. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

His voice sounds flat to his own ears, emotionless. He’s so tired already. Tired of all of this. He wants to go back to sleep. At least he can retreat into his own world then. Where he’s still his own person, not a prisoner. A farmer, not a future prince consort or apprentice or whatever it is she has in mind for him—

“Tatooine.”

He almost doesn’t hear it, it’s so quietly said. 

“What?” he asks. 

She stands, turning her back to him. “Tatooine. Your homeworld.” 

She’s almost out the door when he forces his words past his lips, calling out to her. He can hardly believe it, and he’s scared to voice it aloud, aware that she can change her mind in an instant for whatever reason. But he needs to hear her say it again. To know it’s real. 

“You’re taking me back?”

She sharply nods, not looking back, her posture stiff. “For a week. As you specified. No more than that.”

A week. A week back on Tatooine. 

Ben closes his eyes, trying to blink away the tears already pricking at his vision. 

It’s far more than what he thought he’d ever get. A week...he can get a lot done in a week. He can find Artoo. He can do something about his homestead. Sell it to someone, someone he trusts and knows won’t inflate water prices. He can tell his favorite customers goodbye. He can commit the twin sunset to memory, if the rest of his life is destined to be lived out aboard a warship or on a foreign world, lightyears away from where he knows. 

A week isn’t what he wants. What he _wants_ is to be relieved of this new life, to be thrown back down into the desert wasteland he calls home - but a week is still a week. 

He’ll take it. Gladly. 

“Thank you.” He swallows, then tacks on, “Your Majesty.” 

She nods again, not so harsh this time, and spares him one more glance over her shoulder. “It’s Rey.” 

With that, she’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering who I based Vicrul off of (because of course I did, I love fancasting 😂), it’s the beautiful Ana de Armas from “Knives Out”. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥️


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a long way back to Tatooine. 

He knew that it would be; it’s an Outer Rim planet, but traveling there from somewhere else is a new form of torture. 

Ben stares up at the ceiling until his eyes hurt, willing time to go by faster. He tries to rest after that, but only ends up tossing and turning. 

After several hours, he finally gives up on sleep altogether. Thoroughly frustrated, he sits up in bed and gingerly unwraps his hands free of the bandages. The cuts have healed almost entirely, accelerated by whatever bacta salve that Vicrul had used. 

_Vicrul_. What she must think of him. 

As far as first impressions go, his went spectacularly, disturbingly bad. There’s no arguing that. 

Even worse than the Knight’s impression of him, though...is _hers_. The Empress. He has no doubt she knows what happened. She knows that he… 

Ben shuts his eyes, trying to banish the shame and self-loathing, but it returns in full force as he relives it all. 

He’d been so out of control, he didn’t even feel like himself. Scared, enraged, unstable, destructive. He’d smashed a mirror with his bare hands, and then shattered the remains with his mind. His _mind_! And he’d nearly died from it all. He’s never harmed himself like that before. Ever. 

_Self-preservation should always be a priority, kid. Not an afterthought. You’re a fighter. You’re a survivor. Do you understand?_

It’s a gruff voice, different from the one he knows is his intuition. The one which (usually) keeps him from harm. This voice...it feels more real, like a distant memory. Something that someone once told him, though he doesn’t know when it could’ve happened or who could’ve said it. It doesn’t seem possible. He’s been by himself as long as he can remember. His last name serves as a cruel reminder of this. 

Nuan. Sounds like no one, and it’s true. He’s no one - and he has no one. Just himself, growing up with a droid by his side. 

“Yeah, yeah I understand,” he bitterly answers the question under his breath. “I understand that I’m slowly going insane, hearing voices like that. Not exactly helping my self-preservation, is it?”

Angry though he is, he holds his breath, foolishly waiting for a response that never comes. 

“ _Stupid_ ,” he grumbles, pushing himself out of the bed to stand. 

There’s nothing else to do in here except change, so that’s what he does, sullenly grabbing the neatly stacked clothing at the end of his bed. He holds every piece up to inspect it, trying not to marvel at how soft it all feels. Nothing like his rough, weather worn clothing from before, bought secondhand from Anchorhead’s market. No. Every item here looks brand new, expertly made and exactly his size. A short-sleeved shirt. Lightweight pants. A belt, a jacket. A pair of boots. 

All of it in unrelenting black. 

Not ideal for a climate like Tatooine’s, but this is all he has. He’s property of the Empire now, complete with the Imperial crest branded on each item. 

Sooner or later he’ll have to get used to it. 

***

He ventures out into the main body of the ship eventually, sitting far back and out of sight, but still close enough to watch the Empress in the cockpit. No, _Rey_. She said her name was Rey. He can’t imagine ever calling her that, but it does help to humanize her, to make her less intimidating. 

Just a bit. 

He hasn’t forgotten what she’d done to those stormtroopers, or how she’d thrown him around, and he won’t forget it anytime soon. Knowing her name doesn’t change the fact that she’s lethal, dangerous. A fierce leader who has inspired fear across the galaxy. 

She’s a fierce pilot too, turns out. An expert. She handles the controls with a familiarity that suggests this is her ship, or at least one she’s flown often. When they finally, _finally_ drop from hyperspace, her skill is even more apparent; she lands the ship with razor sharp precision, the sands of Tatooine whipping up in all directions from the strength of the ship’s thrusters. 

Through the viewport, Ben can make out the domed shape of his homestead in the distance. It comes as no surprise that she knows his exact location and has thus navigated there; the stormtroopers had found him on her orders, after all. Still, it’s disconcerting that she’s here now. On his planet, at his home. Where he lives. He’s never had any company before, never shown anyone around. 

Certainly not an Empress. An Empress who is probably used to grand palaces and starships instead of the Jundland Wastes. Relieved as he is that the flight is over, he’s already dreading how the tour will go. 

_Here’s some sand. And if you look over there, more sand! To the left of you you’ll see a moisture vaporator but LOOK! All around it, even more_ kriffing _sand!_

All the while he’ll have to stand there as she takes in how common he is. How poor. 

But it’s a price he’s willing to pay. Returning to Tatooine was his idea, after all, and he’s here for a week. A whole week. He doesn’t want to spend the entire time in this bad of a mood. He wants to make this count and he wants to feel normal again, if only for a little bit.

Easier said than done with a ship like this, though. It’s far more opulent than anything one could ever find on Tatooine. ‘New’ is a foreign concept here, ‘top of the line’ another, and the sleek interior tells him all he needs to know about what the exterior must look like, too. 

“This should probably be hidden somewhere,” he speaks up, after deliberating whether to do so for several minutes.

She fiddles with the controls, not answering. She’s changed her hair again since they last spoke. Not wild and tangled about her shoulders anymore. She’s pulled it into three separate buns at the back of her head, each stacked on top of the other. A playful, childish style. Nothing like her. 

“The shuttle, I mean. You should hide it,” he clarifies. 

No answer.

To the right of where Ben is standing further back, a ramp opens to the outside. Blinding light enters, its reflection off the sand making it even more intense. Ben squints, shading his eyes with his hand as he takes in his familiar surroundings.

She, on the other hand, brushes right past him. Down the ramp, out onto the sand, walking across it like she’s done it her entire life. 

“Hey, wait!” he shouts after her. 

No response. Again. She keeps on walking. 

“Did you not hear me? The ship can’t stay here! Thieves scavenge everything they can get their hands on and this is a prime target—”

She suddenly stops, whipping around to face him. “ _People_ scavenge. Not thieves.” Her throat bobs as she swallows, and she jabs a finger in his direction. “As for the shuttle, it will be fine where it is.”

The unexpected fury lacing her words extinguishes the anger that has been building inside of him the whole trip. He stands there caught off guard, so much that it takes him a moment to look back towards the ship. 

Only to encounter...nothing. 

There’s nothing there. 

_Oh._

He feels very stupid all of a sudden. Stupid and thoroughly chastised. He should have known that the kriffing Empress of the galaxy would have the means for cloaking technology. He shouldn’t have said that about the scavenging thing, either. The way she’d reacted — there’s a story there. Not one for today or even anytime soon. He doesn’t want to upset her further. No. Going forward he’ll _try_ to be civil. Try to extend the same courtesy she’s displayed by allowing him to return here to finish his work. It feels akin to swallowing a mouthful of bantha dung in light of her capturing him in the first place, but he’ll do it. 

“A cloaking device?”

“Yes.”

Ben hesitates, trying to rack his brain for something nice to say about that. Something that will make her scowl at him less than she’s doing right now. 

“That’s the stuff of legends. I’ve only heard about cloaking devices in stories. Your ship must have a lot of power to sustain one for a week.”

“The ship is powered off.” 

“Oh,” he pauses, unsure whether to keep talking with her. She hasn’t left, though. She’s still standing there, looking at him expectantly. Right. That’s something, at least. Ben swallows, trying again. “Doesn’t it need an...I don’t know, an external power source to stay active or something?”

“Not this one. It’s a prototype I built and installed. It doesn’t rely on Hibridium or stygium crystals. Those are hard to come by these days, anyway.”

“You _built_ one?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

Her fists clench at her side at that question.

Realizing his mistake, Ben hastens to add, “No, I mean, that’s — that’s amazing! I can barely fix a moisture vaporator without the help of my droid - and you can make cloaking devices? That’s really impressive.” 

He’s said the right thing this time. Her features soften considerably, and she doesn’t seem as tense as before. Another sign of progress, perhaps. He doesn’t really know what else that looks like for them. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Spoken softly, but it carries over the wind. 

Ben feels his shoulders relax in response and he actually manages a smile, however uncertain. “You’re welcome.”

She stands there in the sand for a moment more, her lips slightly parted as her eyes search his own. Then she turns her back to him again, continuing to make her way towards his homestead. 

Ben lags slightly behind, his legs still stiff with disuse. When he catches up, he finds her looking down at the open-air courtyard where two of the main vaporators are housed. It looks just the same as when he left it. Whether the water in the underground cisterns has been stolen remains to be seen. 

The same goes for Artoo. Hopefully the droid was able to hide himself in one of the storage areas. That would’ve been the sensible thing to do. Sensible and Artoo don’t always mix, though. The astromech is stubborn to a fault. It would be just like him to fight against an intruder, only to be captured and resold. Or worse, broken down and sold for parts. 

Ben sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. Between showing her around and managing his own business, he’s really got his work cut out for him. 

“So. This is where I live,” he starts. He risks a glance at her and wishes he hadn’t. She’s surveying everything with a serious expression. He can only imagine what she finds lacking in a place like this. Probably everything. But he can’t begrudge her that. He’s well aware this place is a dump. “I know it’s a little...run down. Not what you’re used to.”

She turns to him. “What am I used to?” 

He chooses his words carefully. “More than...this?”

“You’d be surprised.” 

Ben blinks. “Really?”

She nods, but doesn’t offer more of an explanation. Instead, she says something that he’s entirely unprepared to hear.

“I like this. Your place.” 

“You do?” Ben asks, disbelieving. Out of all the reactions he thought she’d have, approval hadn’t been one of them. 

“It’s quiet here.” She closes her eyes, the wisps of hair framing her face blowing in the gentle breeze. “I’ve missed quiet like this.”

He takes a moment to look at her, really look at her. She doesn’t seem so pale anymore. It’s as if the sunlight has seeped into her skin. Radiating from the inside out, making a healthy color bloom in her cheeks. Fresh air suits her, as does the heat. Sweat has begun to accumulate on Ben’s brow and across his back, but not so with her. 

She’s used to this kind of climate, he realizes. A desert. 

“Where do you call home?” 

When she opens her eyes, there’s a pain behind them that feels like a punch to the gut. 

“Nowhere,” she answers. 

“Everyone has a home, whether it’s nowhere or somewhere.”

“Well, I don’t,” she snaps. 

Her tone says it all. End of conversation. No more questions, no more answers. 

Okay, then. He won’t pry any more. 

“The entryway is back this way. I can show you around downstairs.” He points over his shoulder, but she doesn’t look. 

She doesn’t move to follow him, either. 

Ben waits for a moment, weighing whether or not to say something else, but he decides against it. He can’t be idle, not as long as there’s work to do. She can find the way down on her own. 

***

Ben searches in every nook and cranny for Artoo. He tears up his room, the kitchen, the maintenance bays, the garage, the storage areas. Nowhere does he find that round, domed head that he’s missed so much. 

He’d anticipated this, prepared for it, and yet...

He’s always had Artoo. _Always_. As long as he can remember. The one constant presence in his life. 

More of a friend than a droid, really. 

His _only_ friend, as pathetic as that sounds. 

Ben tries to be pragmatic in the face of this loss. He does, but he isn’t very good at it. A quick inventory lets him know that none of his water has been stolen. In fact, he has more than enough to sell, even taking into account his three malfunctioning vaporators on the edge of his property. Yet he takes no comfort in this. He simply goes through the motions, transferring the water from the cisterns to the insulated metal jugs.

It’s past dusk when he’s finally done, sweat pouring from his body, every last jug loaded into the rusty old landspeeder he keeps in the garage. He’ll take all of it to market tomorrow when it’s not so late in the day. For now, he needs to go and check on his guest. He has no idea how she’s spent her time since their arrival, but surely she’s as hungry as him. Any food he had before has gone bad, so there won’t be much to eat; emergency ration packs, water, whatever else she may have stored onboard her ship. However little, it will have to be enough. He doesn’t have it in him to prepare anything else. 

He’s halfway back across the gangway to the living quarters when his nose picks up something _amazing_. 

Food. Cooked food. Meat.

Ben quickens his pace, his stomach growling fiercely, hardly believing his sense of smell. 

He finds her in the small galley kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of something that makes his mouth water. When she notices him, she stills. Then she carefully spoons some of the brown liquid from the pot, turning to face him. Holding it up for him.

“Is...this alright?”

Ben can only stare back, speechless. She’s made a home cooked meal that smells better than anything he’s ever attempted to cook himself, and she wants to know if it’s _alright?_ He’ll eat whatever the kriff is in that pot, even if it turns out to be nigh inedible. 

“I’m - I’m sure it’s fine.”

She approaches him. Hesitantly. Just as she had that day with the glass full of ice water. This time, he doesn’t feel so tense around her. So uneasy. He’s merely…

 _Grateful_. He’s grateful. Grateful that after a long day - a day which, despite his best efforts, is still weighing heavily on him - he has this. A warm meal. Company. _Human_ company. 

Bending down to her height, he leans forward and closes his lips around the proffered spoon. Immediately, a rich flavor fills his mouth. Ben shuts his eyes, savoring it. It’s womp rat stew, he’s almost certain. But it’s unlike any he’s ever had. The broth isn’t as sour, the meat not as gamy. It’s…

“Perfect.”

He hears her intake of breath, and he opens his eyes again. She’s so close to him. Very close. Her eyes are wide and glassy, her lips the same flushed pink as her cheeks. 

“It is?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. 

It’s hard to breathe all of a sudden. His stomach is in knots, but he manages to nod his head as he takes a few steps back, reestablishing space between them. “Yes.” 

Her lips quirk up. Almost a smile, but not quite. He knows she’s capable of it; she’d smiled, fanatical and terrifying, when she asked him to be her apprentice. 

He knows this smile would be different. This one would feel right. Because this is _her_ , he realizes. Beneath the cold, imposing Empress, there’s someone else. Someone who brings him water when he’s thirsty. Who cooks for him. 

Who takes him back to his home planet, even though she has all the power to hold him captive forever. 

Ben wants to know _her_ more — if she’ll let him. If there’s a way. 

Maybe there is. 

Maybe if he just...

“Thank you for dinner, Rey.”

Just earlier today, he couldn’t fathom ever calling her that. It had seemed too informal. Far too intimate. 

Now that he has said it...it feels surprisingly natural past his lips. _Normal_. It’s normal, and it makes him feel normal, too, the differences between them not so glaringly obvious. 

Eyes downcast and her cheeks even pinker, she quickly returns to the stove and piles a generous helping of the stew into one of the few bowls he owns. 

When she approaches him again, the steaming bowl held out like a precious gift, he’s entirely unprepared. 

Because this time — this time, there _is_ an actual smile on her face. A small, soft smile. Gentle, kind. Beautiful. 

“You’re welcome...Ben.” 

***

They eat dinner in companionable silence, easily finishing the entire pot of stew between them.

He never once feels self-conscious for having a second or third serving. In fact, she turns out to have a healthy appetite herself. She attacks her food with enthusiasm, eating quickly like it’s going to run away from her if she doesn’t. She even scrapes her bowl clean like he does, trying to get every last spoonful.

When they’re finished, he shows her around downstairs. Each room is a mess, still destroyed from when he’d tried to locate Artoo. He mumbles his apologies and picks up whatever he can, putting it back in its rightful place so she doesn’t have to walk over any junk. That is, until she begins to move things out of the way with a flick of her wrist. A wrench here, a cord of cables there. He thinks it’s an unspoken reminder that he should continue to take it easy and allow his body to heal, but she never says anything. 

She just listens, observes. Where before he found this habit of hers unnerving, he doesn’t anymore. He’s never been an overly talkative person and apparently, neither is she. 

He puts off showing her the small refresher and his bedroom until she asks. His face flames when she steps into each room, taking her time to acquaint herself with areas so personal. The refresher is passably clean; there’s dirt and sand in the combination sonic-water shower, but then that’s always the case. His room, on the other hand...the bed isn’t made, clothes are strewn about everywhere, and the old rug on the floor is a tattered, dirty eyesore. 

He hastens to roll out the edge of it, a cloud of dust wafting into the air when he does. 

“My bedroom,” he offers lamely, suppressing a cough.

“Yes.”

His eyes track where hers are focused. A lone plant on the rickety bedside table. One of the only plants here. 

“That’s a funnel plant. Years back there were some lining the upper walls of the courtyard, but they all died. This one has managed to stay alive in here, where it’s darker and cool. Not sure why. They usually like the sunlight.”

She approaches where it sits, reaching out with her hand to touch one of the green leaves, gently rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. 

Ben swallows, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, but— 

“You can sleep here if you want. I mean — here as in...my home. In the lofted bedroom upstairs or...or in this one, too. Sure. My room. Doesn’t matter.” 

He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. _Kriff_. Why had he said that? 

The bed in her shuttle is far more comfortable than any surface here, and he assumed that’s where she would return to after this - but she even said herself she liked this place. And he _likes_ having her in it. He does. The loneliness that always echoes through here, especially at night, is noticeably absent. In the place of it: her. Content to explore his surroundings, seemingly unbothered by all the clutter and dust.

“Okay. I’ll take the loft,” she agrees. 

“Do you need, um - any bed linens? I can scrounge up something real quick—”

“No need. I’ll manage.” She brushes past him out of his bedroom, already making her way back toward the courtyard.

“Are you sure? That bed up there is bare. Hasn’t been used since...well, ever. This place came with it.”

“Very sure.” She stops, turning back to face him. She’s half encased in shadow, but he swears he can see an eyebrow quirk up. “I’ll be fine. I’m not picky.” 

Yes, he’s beginning to understand as much. This all still feels so surreal, being host to an Empress. _The_ Empress, the leader of the galaxy. He’d expected her to act the part, treating him and his home with disdain, and he feels a twinge of guilt settle in his chest at the thought. It’s taken less than a day alone with her to break down those preconceived notions. She may be many things - but she isn’t arrogant. Far from it. 

“Right. That’s good to know.” Out of ideas of what else to say, he plucks the potted plant from the table and carries it to her, all but shoving it into her arms. “Welcome to Tatooine.”

The embarrassment returns immediately. A plant. He gave her his _plant_. Why? It had seemed like the right thing to do, except now she’s looking at him like he’s grown a pair of lekku, and—

There’s another smile. Another. Even bigger this time. With _dimples_. 

And then: 

“Goodnight, Ben.”

When he finds his voice again, she’s already climbing the pourstone stairs leading up to the loft, the old, flickering motion sensor lights guiding her way. 

“Goodnight,” he echoes, too soft to be heard by her. 

***

Several hours later, he startled awake to the sound of screaming.

It takes him a moment, lying there in the dark, heart pounding furiously, to realize he can’t even hear it out loud. 

The screams are in his head — and they’re _hers_ , desperately crying out for help. 

Ben stumbles blindly out of his room and into the darkness of the courtyard. The perimeter security sensors aren’t beeping, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t intruders. The keypad at the main entryway upstairs is still very much in pieces thanks to the stormtroopers who’d blasted it apart. Someone still could’ve gotten in that way. Could’ve found her. Could’ve—

He doesn’t return to his room to try and find his blaster. He doesn’t have time for that, or to conduct a thorough sweep of his home, or even to knock before barging into the loft. His head feels like it’s about to split open from her screams. All he wants is for it to _stop,_ for her to be safe, to save her from—

Ben stops short, taking in the sight before him.

No one. There’s no one to save her from. 

She’s alone. It’s just her. But she’s in pain, tossing and turning on the mattress, her clothes sticking to her skin with sweat. 

“Wake up!” he gasps, trying to hear his own words over the chaos in his head. 

She doesn’t react to his voice, her eyes clenched shut. The violence of her movements scares him. He’s reminded of that stormtrooper on the floor of the cell, contorting his body, trying to rid himself of the agony that she’d caused him. 

Does she feel the same kind of torture now?

He fumbles in his haste to activate the light fixture above her bed. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he crouches down beside her, placing his hands on her shoulders to rouse her.

A huge mistake. 

He’s thrown backwards against the wall, hitting it with such force that his breath is knocked out of him. 

The screaming in his mind stops. A small mercy - but a new kind of terror creeps in when he sees that she’s sitting up in bed now, staring right at him. 

Except she’s not there. There’s an emptiness to her gaze, like she’s halfway across the galaxy from him. Like she can’t even see him.

And her eyes…

They’re a glowing, venomous yellow. 

He’s only seen them do this once before. His very first meeting with her, back in that detention cell. He’s nearly convinced himself that he’d dreamt that, but this is proof he hadn’t. 

“Rey?” he tries again, wincing as he stands.

A small trickle of blood oozes from her left nostril, spreading across her upper lip, staining it red. 

Then she collapses, head lolling forward. 

He’s already on the bed, gathering her into his arms before it sinks in how dangerous it is to even touch her again. 

What if she throws him harder? Breaks his bones? Snaps his neck? She can do all of that in an instant. He knows she can. He can _feel_ it, he realizes. An energy coursing inside of her. Vicious and cruel and... _ancient_. 

Whatever it is, whatever has happened...this is beyond anything he’s encountered before, and he’s petrified, entirely unsure of what to do. 

But he holds her in spite of his fear.

He loses track of time, cradling her to his chest like he does. Waking her again feels like a death wish, so he can do nothing more than listen to her shallow inhales of breath, her shaky exhales out. 

He grows so used to this rhythm, he immediately knows when she begins to stir. Ben braces himself, hardly daring to breathe, when her eyes flutter open again. 

Hazel. They’re hazel this time.

Ben breathes an enormous sigh of relief. Rey immediately stiffens in his hold at this, her eyes wide with panic, thrashing about like a wild animal. He hugs her even tighter through this, willing her to relax against him. 

“Rey, it’s me. It’s Ben!”

She stills at his words, and he feels her begin to relax. Only slightly, but it’s progress. 

Neither of them say anything. The silence stretches on and on. She doesn’t ever push him away; in fact, she draws ever closer, nestling her face into the front of his chest. 

When he feels a wetness on his skin, when he feels her shoulders begin to shake, that’s when he knows she’s crying. 

“I’m - I’m sorry,” she chokes out, her voice so small and frail. “It’s strongest at night. I shouldn't have slept here. I should have stayed on the ship.”

“What’s strongest at night?” 

She doesn’t answer; she only curls into him more, her body shuddering, seeking comfort. 

He’s never had to comfort someone before. It feels foreign at first, yet at the same time so instinctual. The way that he cards his fingers through her sweat-damp hair, the whispered words that he uses to calm her. 

“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

He says it so many times his voice turns hoarse and his mouth grows dry, but it’s worth it. She falls asleep eventually, huddled against him, her breathing soft and even. 

Ben tries to stay awake for as long as he can after that, keeping watch, monitoring her for any further abnormal behavior. When his eyelids grow heavy and his speech begins to falter, he finally gives in to exhaustion and slips into a dream.

A dream of him and her, together.

Side-by-side, on a throne of jagged rocks. 

And below their throne, spread out as far as the eye can see — a mass of bloodied, battered bodies. 

Every last one of them dead. 

She turns to him, smiling fondly, and strokes his cheek. 

“Well done, my loyal apprentice. My husband.” She leans in, kisses him softly, her next words spoken like a prayer against his lips. “ _Kylo Ren_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this longer chapter! I debated splitting it up into two but figured y'all could handle it all in one go 😉
> 
> Huge thanks to [MyJediLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyJediLife/pseuds/MyJediLife) and [QueenBumble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBumble/pseuds/QueenBumble) for looking this over for me! 
> 
> Quick question: do you guys like Star Wars references in the end notes? I could always add more if you want. Here's one for this chapter:  
> The [Lars homestead](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lars_homestead). I found the [crossection](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/6/65/Lars_Homestead_ITW.png/revision/latest?cb=20190517161143) of what it looks like particularly useful. Pretty cool huh? No wonder Rey likes Ben's bachelor pad 😎


End file.
